


Three Hail Marys And A Very Brave Dog

by LogicGunn



Series: The Long Dark [7]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, The Long Dark (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Long Dark Fusion, Angst, Fluff, Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, John's POV, M/M, Nature, Post-Apocalyptic, Survival, dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26635432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicGunn/pseuds/LogicGunn
Summary: Three Hail Mary’s later, and with no improvement in Rodney’s state, John decides to skip the formality and appeal to the Mother of God directly. He pours the rosary into his other hand and grasps it tightly, mumbling a heartfelt prayer while he cradles Rodney’s head and kisses his face. He hopes that someone, somewhere, will hear his pleas and send help.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Series: The Long Dark [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583821
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	Three Hail Marys And A Very Brave Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning in end notes.

“Those bodies...in the cave? I want to give them a proper burial.” 

John looks up from his sudoku, a particularly hard one that Rodney made for him this morning in between frying venison and brewing coffee. Rodney’s face is earnest and resolute, and John knows that he won’t accept “no” for an answer. The truth is, John has barely given the bodies they found in a cave off the frozen river a second thought; he wrote them off as casualties of a harsh environment and that was that. But Rodney has a softer side hidden underneath all his bluster, and he was affected by the discovery at the time. John should have known it would come up again. 

“I’ve been thinking about it,” begins Rodney again when John hesitates for too long, “and May is much warmer than October, not that it’s warm, as such, but it’s at least not so darn frozen and some of the snow has melted so surely the ground has thawed enough to dig? We have shovels out the back and-“ 

“Okay,” says John. 

“-we could…Okay?” 

“Yeah. We can go today.” 

“Great! That’s great!” Rodney’s body slumps as though all the fight has left him. He obviously expected to have to talk John into going. “They deserve a burial.” 

John thinks back to the men whose bodies he wasn’t able to recover and return to US soil, the families left without the closure a burial can bring. “They do. We can do that. We _should_ do that.” 

They are firmly into the polar summer already so there is sun 24/7. The impact that has had on the temperature is notable, and Rodney’s probably right in that the ground will be workable. But there’s no way to know if it will be thawed enough to dig down six feet, they might have to do with half that. Still, it’s the thought that counts here, and if it goes some way towards alleviating Rodney’s survivor’s guilt then John’s all for it. 

They wrap up warm and set off with shovel in hand (Rodney) and rifle in arms (John). In John’s jacket pocket is the rosary that he found in a cabin out on the east of the lake all those months ago, the only thing they have that would make do to mark a burial. He touches it briefly, fingers passing over familiar beads, the ghost of his mother’s voice in his mind praying to St Agatha the night after she found out her breast cancer had returned, and every night after, her faith unwavering even in the face of an undignified death. 

Miska follows them as they walk down the hill and onto the surface of the frozen lake. It’s an overcast day, weak rays of sunlight filtering through the gaps in the cloud but otherwise grey and dull, brightened only by the endless snow and ice all around them. The breeze is strong enough to bend the trees on the shore, but not so strong it impedes them, and though they have no way to tell time, it’s probably only a couple of hours before they reach the mouth of the river that feeds the lake. It's still frozen over, but they can hear the trickling flow of water underneath and John makes an executive decision that they’ll stick to solid ground as they follow the hunting trail north through the valley, doubting that Rodney’s claim in October that the ice could hold a truck still holds true. 

The cave is further away than he remembers, passing between a jagged rockface on one side and rolling mounds on the other, diverting away from the river into the clearing he remembers so vividly. The hunting lookout is still there in the middle, four half-walls and a roof, barely a shelter from the elements. John notes that the clearing is barren; where there had been an abundance of arctic hares before, hopping around from tree to tree, now there are none. Miska catches a scent on the breeze and chases after it, but John doesn’t call her back, knows that while she might go out of sight, she won’t go far. 

The entrance to the cave sits in the cliff-face to the west, an opening with an overhang that Rodney approaches tentatively, respectfully, dropping his shovel at the entrance. John joins him, places a hand on his shoulder as he crouches down to uncover the resting site of the two bodies with gloved hands. John gets a nagging feeling that something is wrong. The bodies underneath the snow aren’t as he remembers them. The long coils of dreadlocks are lying a few feet away, detached and discarded, where before they were wrapped around the two faces in a desperate attempt to protect them from the elements. As Rodney’s fingers brush the covering of snow, they uncover reddened patches underneath the powdery top layer. With a start, John realises what Rodney’s about to reveal, is about to tell him to _stop, wait, hold on,_ when there is a growl from deeper in the cave. Rodney’s head swivels around to peer into the darkness, and John raises his rifle quickly, aims towards the sound, primed and ready to fire. A shuffling movement brings a hissing and bedraggled wolf into view, hackles raised and body rigid, teeth bared in an unmistakable warning. It has a thinness that speaks to a nursing mother, which is confirmed by the snuffling yelps coming from behind her. 

“Stand up,” says John quietly, and Rodney complies, bringing himself to full height and turning his body to face the wolf head-on. “Now we’re gonna step back slowly and carefully until we’re out of the cave.” 

“John...” begins Rodney. 

“Slowly and carefully,” says John. “Go.” 

He can feel Rodney pull away from him, so he gives it a couple of seconds then starts to follow, backing out of the cave until he’s in the daylight, the wolf having stayed put inside. He’s reluctant to turn his back on it, but they need to get away as fast as they can. He could kill it, but wolves aren’t as solitary as people believe, and where there’s one there are more. Gunfire will only draw her companions, and while he could take on one, there’s a risk that they’d be overrun by more than that. 

“John?” asks Rodney, his voice fluctuating with fear. 

“Back the way we came. Nice and slow.” 

They move, retracing their footsteps in the snow easily and following them back towards the river, Rodney on point and John watching the rear, his gun raised and every sense primed. He starts when he bumps into Rodney’s back suddenly, the breath knocked out of him as he fumbles with the rifle. 

“Rodney, move!” he says. But Rodney turns around to face him instead. 

“Miska-“ he says. 

“I know, I know. But she’s a smart dog and she’ll find her way back to us. We have to keep moving until we’re out of the wolves' territory.” 

“Moving, right.” 

Rodney carries on and John follows, angled to watch both ahead and behind with his back to the rockface. They pass back through the valley until the lake is just in sight around the bend of the river, and John stops momentarily to scan the trees and check if they’re being followed. He doesn’t realise just how far away Rodney has gone until there’s a warning growl off to the side and he turns to see another wolf, a different one, standing between them, having snuck out from between the trees. Rodney hasn’t noticed, is carefully scrambling down a slope with his hands on a tree to steady himself, and John is hesitant to shoot the wolf because it’s too close to Rodney, stalking him from behind, body crouched low and flat as it prepares to strike. 

Rodney looks back towards John and spots the wolf between them, his eyes widening and his body freezing in place. It growls out another warning, but Rodney’s too slow to move and it lunges. John raises the rifle and fires once, twice, clipping it on the leg just enough to maim it, and the sound of gunfire is enough to snap Rodney out of his stupor and get him moving, rushing down the bank and onto the river. It’s not until the ice audibly cracks that John realises Rodney’s mistake, and he watches, powerless to stop it, as Rodney falls through the surface and into the water beneath. His arms scramble on the ice for purchase, but with no sound coming out of his mouth John knows that he’s been shocked by the immersion in the freezing water. If he goes under his chances of survival are extremely low, he’ll die either from involuntary inhalation of water or getting trapped under the ice. 

“Rodney!” shouts John. “Hold on! I’m coming!” 

He starts forward, but the wolf jumps to its paws and turns to face him head-on, even more dangerous now that it’s hurt and dripping blood down its hind leg. It’s come down to this moment, man versus wolf, John’s military training versus twenty thousand years of instinct and survival. John raises the rifle as the wolf lunges, and as he pulls the trigger he’s thrown to the ground by the force of the wolf’s body colliding with his chest. He rolls onto his knees and brings the rifle up again, but the wolf is immobilised on the ground next to him, blood spreading out on the snow beneath it out of a hidden wound. Satisfied that it’s dead, he gets to his feet and runs over to the river, skidding to a stop on the bank just a couple of meters from where Rodney’s holding on for dear life. John knows that he can’t step onto the ice, it will only break underneath him and if he falls in too, they’ll never get out again. Rodney’s doing all the right things; he dumped his backpack in the river and is leaning forward kicking his legs up behind him and trying to push forward onto the ice, but he’s exhausted from the shock, unable to get enough control of his body to find the strength he needs to save himself. 

What John needs is a rope or a long stick, something for Rodney to grab hold of so he can pull him to solid ground. He looks around, feeling panic start to cloud his mind, gripping the rifle in his hands so tightly as he- Wait. The rifle. It’s not exactly SOP, but… John unclips the magazine and empties the solitary bullet in the chamber out onto the snow. If he’s lucky, the rifle is long enough to reach Rodney; all he has to do is stretch out and grab it. John lies down on the edge of the bank, parallel to the river, and holds the rifle stock first as far from his body as he can, across the cracked ice and within grabbing distance of Rodney’s hand. 

“Rodney!” he shouts, and Rodney turns his head to the sound of his name, breath misting rapidly in the air, fast little puffs as he hyperventilates while his heart struggles to pump the blood around a cold-shocked cardiovascular system. “Rodney, I know it’s hard, but I need you to reach out and grab the gun. Can you do that?” 

Rodney doesn’t say anything, he just looks at John, eyes wide in fear, pupils dilated and glassy, chest heaving with the shallow breaths he’s sucking in. 

“Rodney, reach out your hand!” 

Rodney reaches out towards John across the ice, his arm ineffectual and sluggish. It’s not close enough, but it’s a start. 

“That’s good, Rodney, that’s great. Now lean a little further until you can grab hold of the stock.” 

Rodney shuffles around in the hole in the ice until he’s facing John and reaches his arm as far as he can, making contact with the rifle but failing to grasp on, hands clumsy in his gloves. 

“Shit,” mumbles John. Rodney’s been in the water for nearly three minutes, and with each passing second, his strength and coordination wanes even further. “Take off your gloves.” 

Rodney looks down his outstretched arm at his hand, then pulls it back slowly and brings it to his mouth. John thinks he’s starting to get confused from the cold but lets out an _oh_ when he realises that he’s just using his teeth to remove his glove from his fingers. It’s smarter than trying to use the hand that’s keeping his head above the surface of the water. That’s Rodney all over, smart and resourceful, and _goddamnit,_ John isn’t going to lose him to accidental drowning. When Rodney’s glove is off, he reaches out again and grasps onto the rifle, and John takes an experimental tug to check if he’s holding on tight enough to be pulled out of the river. His grip doesn’t falter, so John pulls harder and the force of it drags Rodney’s shoulders up and onto the ice. 

“That’s great Rodney, you’re doing great. I’m going to pull you again, and this time I want you to kick with your feet as hard as you can, okay?” 

Rodney nods and John counts down from three and pulls as hard as he can. Rodney’s feet break through the fractured ice as he kicks and kicks and kicks like his life depends on it. John pulls and pulls, and Rodney slides over the ice and closer to the bank of the river. When his arms are within reach, John grasps him around the wrists with both hands and tugs until he’s right out of the water, rolling him onto his back on the snowy bank. During the struggle, the rifle falls out of Rodney’s hands and into the river, and while John knows that’s a bad thing, he can’t bring himself to care. Rodney’s out of the water, but that’s just step one. Step two is getting him sheltered and dry. 

John curses mother nature to the seventh level of hell when the sky opens up and snowflakes start to fall on them. Could this situation get any worse? It’s hours back to the cabin on foot. That’s a hell of a long way for someone to walk in the freezing cold when they’ve been submerged in water. Rodney doesn’t have the training to withstand the cold for even a quarter of that. A howl echoes through the trees, then another, and another. John looks at the dead wolf lying a few meters away and swears as he stands. “We have to move, Rodney,” he says. “Right now.” 

“Can’t.” 

“Oh yes you fucking can,” says John, and he reaches deep down inside himself to channel his most hated drill instructor and starts to shout. “On your feet!” 

Rodney rolls slowly onto his knees and grabs hold of the hand that John offers, grasping John’s jacket with the other hand and pulling himself up and onto his feet. John swings Rodney’s sodden arm over his shoulder and starts to march him through the blizzard and down the river towards the lake, Rodney leaning on him more and more with each step until he collapses onto his knees just as they reach the edge. His head is bent low and he’s breathing fast, his cheeks as white as the snow surrounding them. From the way Rodney is curled in on himself, it’s clear he’s reached the limit of his own mobility and John’s going to have to carry him from here. He’s wary of the distance between the river and the cabin, but the sight of a bright green fishing hut further out on the lake gives him hope. It’s sheltered and contained; John can strip Rodney out of his wet clothes and wrap him up in his own dry jacket out of the windchill and away from the snow and the wolves. If it’s anything like the hut that Rodney uses to fish in it’ll have a small stove that John can light to warm him up. Relieved that he has a plan, he lifts Rodney into a standing position then bends at the waist and drapes him over his back into a fireman’s carry. Rodney’s heavy in his wet clothes but there’s no time to strip him now, he has to put some more space between them and the wolves. He steps out onto the lake’s surface tentatively, but it holds firm and solid in deference to the fact that there are several huts bolted onto it all year round. It’s just pure bad luck that Rodney stepped onto a weak spot on the river, thin from the rising temperature and the flowing water. 

It’s such hard work with Rodney over his shoulders, but he’s so quiet. Too quiet. Not even a grumble about the dig of John’s bony shoulder into his gut or the fact that his head is upside down and his arms are flopping around, his hands banging against John’s ass with every step he takes. John keeps talking to him, murmuring words of encouragement and promises of warmth despite the snowflakes that are collecting on his face and the fact that the temperature has dropped at least five degrees in the past five minutes. 

“We’re almost there, Rodney…we’ll strip off your wet clothes and get you warmed up, okay?...it’s just a little further now…look, it’s right here…” 

Rodney doesn’t respond in any way that John can hear, but finally, _finally,_ they reach the fishing hut and John throws open the door to carry Rodney inside. It’s small and cramped, but they’re out of the weather. John closes the door on the blizzard with his hip, drops Rodney onto the ground and makes a start on undressing him. 

“Fuck. Rodney,” says John, and he unzips Rodney’s wet jacket to pull him out of it. 

“N-no,” says Rodney weakly, trying to pull the jacket closed. 

“I know it’s counterintuitive, buddy, but you need to get out of those wet clothes asap. It’s better to be naked than in wet clothing.” 

“S’cold.” 

“I know,” says John. “I know.” 

He takes his own jacket off, ready to wrap Rodney up in it, then strips Rodney methodically. The boots he has to completely unlace to get off, then the waterlogged socks, then pants and boxers, and all the layers on his top half. He’s stripped Rodney many times, but this brings to mind the day they met when Rodney got caught up in the snow and walked to the cabin, soaked from the thighs down. He stripped him that night too, but this is so much worse, Rodney’s not even shivering anymore, has stopped responding to his verbal commands, and John knows those are signs of extreme hypothermia. He rolls Rodney’s naked body into his own winter jacket, wraps it around him tight then takes stock of the hut. There’s a miniature stove in the corner to keep people warm when they’re ice fishing and a chest of drawers against the wall. Some weathered-looking logs are tucked in behind the stove, enough to get it going but not enough to last more than a couple of hours. John opens the door and builds a fire, but when he checks his jacket pockets and those of his backpack, there aren’t any matches. He checks Rodney’s and finds a soggy matchbox, ruined and useless from the water. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” 

He strikes a wet match on the surface of the stove, another on the walls of the hut, and yet another on the stubble on his face. None of them ignite; he didn’t really expect them to. 

“God fucking damn it.” 

In desperation he raids the drawers for something to get the fire going, rejoices when he finds an old lighter in the bottom drawer next to some fishing line and lures and an old newspaper dated three years earlier. He grabs the lighter and strikes it but nothing happens. He shakes it and strikes it again and again until finally it catches a flame, running on fumes but enough to ignite the scraps of wood in the stove’s belly. John closes the door and opens the vents to encourage it to burn. 

“Come on little fire.” 

Tending a fire is as familiar as breathing by now, and John quickly coaxes it into life, flooding the hut with light. It isn’t long before it starts to heat up and John turns his attention back to Rodney. 

“Rodney? Open your eyes for me.” 

Rodney doesn’t respond, his body still and pale even against the ice underneath him. His breath is slow and steady, and when John checks his pulse it’s strong and regular, his heart thumping away in his chest when John bends and places an ear over his ribcage. It’s little comfort; though losing consciousness isn’t unusual in cases of extreme hypothermia, it’s not a good sign. There’s nothing to be done now except to wait for him to warm through and hope he wakes up. John takes off his sweater and thermals and burrows his arms between the jacket and Rodney’s sides, pressing his chest against Rodney’s to share his own body heat with Rodney’s core. The ice is cold underneath them so he pulls Rodney’s legs over the top of his own to keep them off it, and they settle into a familiar position, Rodney in John’s arms, chest to chest and legs entwined. John’s thoughts go to the distance between them and the cabin. Would it be better for him to re-enter the wolves’ territory to collect firewood so they can keep the hut warm long enough for Rodney’s clothes to dry? Or should they just warm Rodney up and risk the trip back home, splitting John’s dry clothes between them. He’s wearing enough layers with the thermals for them to be fully covered, though barely. Does he even have the strength to carry him all that way? 

The training that John did in the military prepared him for extreme-climate survival, but the goal was always to stabilise someone until help could arrive, whether it would be hours or days didn’t matter, it was enough to know that someone was coming. There is no help to be had on the island, as far as they know they’re alone, so every decision they make is a life or death one and John’s not fool enough to think their luck won’t run out sometime. It never occurred to him that the wolves here might migrate around the island, but it makes sense that they would go where the food is once they’ve depleted an area. It’s probably just bad luck that they ran into them in the cave; they’ve already hunted the hares to a serious reduction in population numbers, it’s clearly time for them to move on and perhaps they would have done were it not for the cubs. There’s very little as ferocious as a mother protecting her young, and they were fortunate to get away from her with just a warning. 

John knows not to rub Rodney’s limbs vigorously, to do so would risk the cold blood in his extremities rushing to his heart and shocking it further, but he gently sweeps his hands up and down Rodney’s back and sides to encourage heat transfer and hopefully soothe Rodney should he be somehow aware of what’s going on. His hand hits a lump in the jacket pocket and he reaches in, fingers tangling with the rosary he was carrying. He palms it, tracing the shape of the crucifix with fingertips and finds himself repeating the Apostle’s Creed, the familiar words tumbling out of his mouth as much on instinct as anything else. 

“I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth...” 

It’s a lie. He doesn’t believe, not really, not for a very long time. He doesn’t really think it will help, but it can’t _hurt,_ and if there’s even the smallest chance of divine intervention it’s worth drudging up old memories and buried pain to improve Rodney’s chances of survival. The Lord’s Prayer follows, almost a comfort in the cold, connecting him inexplicably to his father and brother across thousands of miles and decades of time. For most of his adult life he ignored the ever-expanding hole in his chest that their absence created, but here and now, with Rodney in peril in his arms and the very real chance that he’s about to lose the one person he loves most in the world, he yearns for them in a palpable way. No doubt his father would have something scathing to say about his choice of lovers, and that fact that he’s male would be the least of it; far less forgivable would be Rodney’s breeding and stature, his international notoriety notwithstanding. But despite his misgivings, John’s inner child truly believes that he would come through for them in the way that only a father can, would make the impossible happen and they would find themselves in a state-of-the-art hospital with the finest doctors that money can buy. Dave would be an easier sell, though not by much, he would provide the kind of emotional support that their father hasn’t been capable of since his wife died. John would give a lot to have them here, and that’s something he never thought he’d feel again. 

Three Hail Mary’s later, and with no improvement in Rodney’s state, John decides to skip the formality and appeal to the Mother of God directly. He pours the rosary into his other hand and grasps it tightly, mumbling a heartfelt prayer while he cradles Rodney’s head and kisses his face. He hopes that someone, somewhere, will hear his pleas and send help. 

*** 

John’s forced to leave Rodney alone in the hut when the fire turns to hot embers. With Rodney not waking up yet, he has no choice but to go seek out more firewood to keep them warm, which means he’ll have to enter the wolves’ territory again. He’s wholly unsettled at the thought of doing so without a gun. Reluctantly, he zips up his jacket over Rodney's naked form to keep the heat in, pulls on his thermals and sweater, then empties his backpack of everything and steps out of the hut, closing the door tight against the wind. It’s cold without his jacket, bitterly so in the falling snow, but Rodney needs it far more than he does. He heads towards the mouth of the river, eyeing the trees on the bank for any sign of life. It’s darker than he’d like, the clouds have clustered into a thick, almost impenetrable layer. He shouldn’t have hesitated so long to do this. He can barely make out the ground beneath the trees, never mind a prowling wolf, but when he gets closer he’s overjoyed to see that there is an abundance of fallen branches on the ground, some he can break by hand and others he needs to snap over his knee. 

He works quickly, forcing the wood down into the backpack until it’s full to bursting, so much so that he can’t actually zip it up, then he makes a pile of branches on the ground, gathering them up and tying them together with his belt for easy carrying. He’s just buckling them up when he hears the sound; something moving in the trees, just out of sight. He slings the backpack onto his back and picks up the bundle in one hand, his other hand twitching over his thigh where he wishes he had a sidearm. Peering deeper into the trees, he starts to step back towards the lake, one foot then the other, watching for movement. He doesn’t think to look behind him. When the wolf attacks, John is knocked down into his front so fast he barely has time to bring his arms up to break his fall. It pins him down with all its body weight, and John can’t move to shake it off. Snarling in his ear, it tries to bite his neck, but it miscalculated and it’s too far down his body, its teeth scraping the fabric of the backpack instead. John reaches down for his boot-knife; if he can get a good thrust he might luck out and hit an artery, or at the very least make it rethink its attack. He tries to pull his foot up to meet his hand, but the wolf’s hind leg is in the way, and it keeps snapping furiously at him. He starts to think he’s not going to get out of this, that this goddamned wolf is going to be his end, and his thoughts turn to Rodney even as the wolf’s front paws start to shred his sides. 

Rescue comes in the form of a flying mound of grey and white fur; John would recognise Miska’s growl anywhere, and she slams into the side of the wolf at high speed, forcing it off John’s back and over the edge of the bank. It skids out into the middle of the river and starts to regroup, oblivious to the cracking of the surface until it falls through into the river and gets sucked down under the ice. John pushes himself up onto his knees and reaches for Miska, who comes to stand in front of him with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, panting furiously, no doubt from the adrenaline of the attack. 

“Such a good girl,” says John, pressing his face to her snout and rubbing behind her ears as best as he can in gloves. He stands, wincing at the gash in his side, and grabs the fallen bundle of firewood, calling Miska to follow as he steps back onto the lake. It’s still snowing silently all around them, and he longs for the warmth of the fishing hut as he starts to shiver, whether from the cold or the altercation he’s not sure. Miska runs off ahead of him and paws at the door to the hut anxiously, and when John opens it up she dashes inside and right up to Rodney, who’s sitting naked on John’s jacket with his back against the wall next to the stove. 

“Hey girl,” says Rodney as Miska licks his face. He wraps his arms weakly around her neck and she settles her head on his shoulder. John’s stomach, which was in knots over Rodney’s unconscious state, relaxes and he breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of him petting Miska, even if he looks utterly wrecked. 

“How are you feeling?” asks John, dumping the firewood on the ground next to the stove. 

“Tired.” 

“Let me see you.” John crouches down in front of Rodney and checks his pulse at the wrist, the dilation of his eyes, and his temperature with the back of his hand. It’s crude, but it’s all he’s got. If they were back in the cabin he’d at least have a thermometer. All things considered; they’ve gotten off lightly. Rodney passes the 4AT delirium test: months of the year backwards, what date it is (John accepts a rough guess on Rodney’s part, at least he gets the year right), who’s the last known prime minister of Canada – _Stephen Harper, for what that’s worth. What a moron._

“You’re hurt,” says Rodney when John stands, pawing at his side. 

“I’m okay,” says John. He surveys the damage; he’s bleeding from a gash on his side, but not badly. Stitches would be good, but they’re not necessary for him to heal. His sweater is a write-off, and he thanks his lucky stars that his good one, the hand-knitted one he salvaged from a house in Thomson’s Crossing, is in the pile of laundry back at the cabin. The synthetic one he’s wearing is no great loss. 

Rodney shuffles forward awkwardly. “Let me see, let me-” 

John lifts his clothes to give Rodney a view of his torso and winces when cold hands touch his skin. “It’s not so bad,” he says. “Miska intervened.” 

“Thank god,” says Rodney. “The wolf?” 

“In the river.” 

Rodney pulls back and settles against the wall. “That’ll need cleaning.” 

“I’ll get right on that. Just as soon as we get home.” 

“We’d better get going then.” 

John shakes his head. “In the morning. It’s a blizzard out there.” 

“We have to sleep here?” 

“You’re in no shape to walk naked for hours in a blizzard. Not even a Navy Seal could do that after a submersion.” 

“It’s snowing? It hasn’t snowed for weeks.” 

“Bad luck, I guess.” 

John opens up the stove and starts filling it up with firewood. The hut is warm enough so he closes it down to make it last, then fishes an old, stale granola bar out of the discarded contents of the backpack. It's all he has; Rodney was the one carrying the food. “Here,” he says as he opens it and gives it to Rodney. 

“Do you have one?” asks Rodney. 

“No. It’s the last one. But I’m not the one who fell through the ice. I can manage without for a night.” 

Rodney doesn’t argue, just nibbles on the bar with his eyes closed. He looks drained, his limbs are sluggish and his face is pale and expressionless. It’s clearly an effort even just to chew. Instead of staring, John busies himself with Rodney’s wet clothes, taking them outside to wring the water out then draping them over the drawers in the hut to dry. The boots he places right in front of the fire for maximum heat, and the socks he dumps directly on top. He settles down next to Rodney and lets him relax onto his shoulder. 

“Give me your foot,” says John when the socks are dry, and Rodney lifts his foot into John’s lap so he can pull them on, still toasty from the stove. Rodney wiggles his toes in luxury as he drops his leg back down and raises the other one. 

“So warm,” he says. 

“Mmmm. Hopefully the rest of your clothes will dry out in by morning and we can go home. In the meantime...” 

John takes off his trousers and slides them up Rodney’s legs. Rodney lifts his hips so John can tug them up and over. 

“That’s better,” says Rodney. “Thanks.” 

“No worries.” 

Rodney’s tired out, and there’s nothing to be done anyway, so they lie down on the floor of the hut, Rodney in the middle, John and Miska on either side, and settle down for the night. Somewhere in the distance they can hear the anxious howling of wolves but tucked up in the hut, four walls and a roof between them and the world outside, it feels warm and safe. Exhaustion overwhelms Rodney, and he falls asleep quickly, but Miska stays awake, eyes glued to the door and ears twisting to every tiny little sound. John’s hand reaches for the rosary he left discarded in the corner of the hut, and he murmurs a thanks to anyone who’s listening for Rodney’s recovery as he slides it into his trouser pocket over Rodney's hip. The excitement of the day proves too much for him, and he follows Rodney into slumber despite the discomfort of the ice beneath him, the sounds of the wind whistling through the gaps sparking dreams of flying. 

*** 

John wakes up long before Rodney. Miska’s still awake and lying across Rodney’s other side, keeping him warm. The fire is low and John fills it back up with the last of the firewood, stuffing it into the chamber as tightly as he can and opening the vents up to finish drying Rodney’s still touch-damp clothing in a blast of heat. It’s a wonder how such a stove doesn’t melt through the ice, but the people who lived here surely knew what they were doing when they built the fishing huts. He gazes down at Rodney’s sleeping face, the colour in his cheeks a relief, the sweat on his neck even more so. He stirs when John touches his forehead, blinks sleepily up at him with a smile on his face. 

“Hey,” he says, mouth wide open in a yawn. He pulls John’s jacket tighter around his body as he sits up against the outer wall. “Are my clothes dry?” 

“Another half-hour or so,” says John. 

“I’m sorry if I worried you. It was a rookie mistake, stepping onto the ice like that.” 

“In your defence, there was a very scary wolf poised to attack.” 

“Mmmm. Still.” Rodney gathers up his knees and wraps his arms around them. “I can’t believe there were wolves in the cave. And that they had cubs.” 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to bury the bodies,” says John, surprising himself with his honesty. 

“Well, circle of life and all that.” 

“The Lion King?” 

“Good movie.” Rodney smiles. “Watched it with Maddie.” 

It says a lot about how well they’ve settled on this island that Rodney can talk about his family now without getting upset. Every so often he shares a little snippet of his life before, and John loves to hear them. 

“What does she look like?” he asks. 

“Maddie?” asks Rodney. 

“Yeah.” 

“Uh...like a little cherub. Blonde hair, blue eyes, like her mother. Chubby cheeks that are always smeared in chocolate. She likes ballet and presents, and her smile lights up the room.” 

“Cute.” 

“Very. She had me wrapped around her little finger.” 

“Her dad?” 

Rodney frowns and starts picking at a loose thread in John’s trousers. “He, uh...he bailed when Jeannie got pregnant. Didn’t want to be a father. Can you believe the asshole actually tried to bribe her to get an abortion?” 

“Jesus, that’s shitty of him.” 

“I wanted her to sue for child support, but she didn’t want to have to answer to him when it came to making decisions for Maddie. She got papers to emancipate her instead. Freed him of all obligation, but freed them too.” 

“Good for her.” 

“I tried to make up for his failings by being a good uncle. She never asked if she had a dad, but I guess at some point she will. I hope Jeannie tells her the truth so she never wants to go looking for him.” 

“If Jeannie’s anything like you, she’ll have an answer ready when that time comes.” 

Rodney looks at the fire thoughtfully. “Hmmm. Just as long as he stays clear. He’s already hurt Jeannie. If he hurts Maddie, I’ll- well, I’ll do nothing because I can’t do anything from here. But I’m sure Jeannie will do it for me. This is all assuming they are still alive. Do you think they’re still alive? What if they were on a plane or in a car or-” 

John grabs Rodney’s hands to try to stem the impending panic attack. “I can’t pretend to know where they are, but I’m sure they’re together,” he says. 

“How do you know?” asks Rodney, wide-eyed with fear. 

“Because mothers don’t abandon their cubs.” 

Rodney nods and closes his eyes, squeezing John’s hands tight as he tries to regain control of his swirling thoughts. When he lets go, john checks Rodney’s clothes, finds that they’re dry and warm and ready to be put on. 

“Here you go, buddy,” says John, handing Rodney’s clothes over. He helps Rodney get into them, still unsteady from his ordeal, then laces up his boots and wraps him back up in his jacket. 

“What about mine?” asks Rodney. 

“It’s still damp,” says John, shaking it out. “The down takes a long time to dry out.” 

“What are you going to wear?” 

“I have my thermals and my sweater, and it’s only a couple of hours home. I’ll rough it. If it gets bad, I’ll put on the jacket. Okay?” 

“You should take my sweater,” says Rodney, taking off the jacket and removing his sweater. 

“Rodney, I’m-” 

“So help me John Sheppard, if you say “I’m fine” I will throw you out on your ass.” Rodney huffs as he pulls the sweater over his head. “Your jacket will keep me warm enough to get home. Two sweaters will keep you from getting hypothermia. We can’t both catch it in twenty-four hours.” 

“Alright,” says John. “Fine. You win.” He takes the offered sweater and pulls it on over the top of his own clothes, and Rodney’s right, he’s warmer already. Rodney struggles with the zip of the jacket so John does it for him, pulling it right up to his chin then flipping the hood up over his toque for good measure. “Are you ready for this? Because we can wait a while if you need to.” 

“Honestly?” says Rodney. “I feel fine. I’m tired and hungry, and neither of those things is going to get better in a fishing hut out on the ice. I want to go home and have some of our freshly hung venison. I’m not above emotionally blackmailing you to make me food.” 

John kisses Rodney’s red nose. “I will make you breakfast when we get in. We still have a little powdered egg left. I’ll fry it up with some venison and some ketchup and it’ll be just like a full English.” 

Rodney’s smile is wide and bright, despite the dark circles under his eyes. 

*** 

They cut straight across the lake when they leave the hut. It’s quicker than following the shoreline would have been, and the ice holds firm and solid under their combined weight. Miska keeps close, almost underfoot at times, and she keeps her ears pricked for trouble. John feels naked and vulnerable without his rifle, even more so with Rodney to protect, but he keeps his knife in his belt loop for emergencies and thanks their lucky stars when nothing bad has happened by the time they start up the hill from the lake to the camp office. It’s freezing cold inside the cabin, the fires having died out many hours before, but there’s a sense of safety and shelter that bolsters them, and as John lights the stoves again, Rodney starts to get chatty. 

“I wish I knew their names. I mean, it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, it’s not like I would get a chance to speak to them, but not knowing their names, and now not being able to bury them, I feel like I’m doing them a disservice somehow. They were people, real people, and the thought of some random wolves chewing on their bodies is just...I know it’s nothing personal, it’s just nature being nature, but it’s gruesome and kind of unfair, don’t you think?” 

John, who's coaxing a flame into an inferno, just _mmmhmm’s_ at the appropriate places, secretly glad that Rodney is well enough to talk his ear off, something he’s started doing more and more as he’s become increasingly comfortable with their life here. But feeling better or not, John’s not going to let Rodney overexert himself for the foreseeable. 

“Right. Bed,” he says, as he stands up, stretching his back out and recoiling when the wound in his side splits open. He’d forgotten about it, accustomed as he is to ignoring pain from his military years, and the sharp sensation makes him suck a breath in through his teeth. 

“Oh no, mister. Don’t think I didn’t see you wince. You can strip off while I get the first aid kit and we’ll stitch up that wound.” 

“Rodney, it’s fine. In a week it’ll have closed right up.” 

“Fine my ass.” 

“Rodney-” 

“Just- just go lie down on the bed and let me take care of you, okay? That wolf could have killed you, and no doubt its claws were full of dirt and bacteria and the rotting flesh of its victims.” 

John feels a warmth spreading behind his ribs and has to stop himself pressing a hand to his sternum. “Victims?” he asks. 

“Poor unsuspecting rabbits and birds and deer and god knows what else. It’s an absolute miracle that Miska got to you on time.” 

John, who thinks that Rodney’s recovery is the true miracle, doesn't argue, just heads upstairs to do as he’s told. There’s no changing Rodney’s mind when he’s like this, but it makes him feel good to have someone so invested in his own health, safety and happiness. Rodney comes stomping up the stairs rattling the first aid tin that they keep in the medicine cupboard, and he flips the lid up as John lies down on his good side, humming and mumbling as he selects his tools. John bites his lips when Rodney disinfects the wound with alcohol, thoroughly sluicing it then drying it off with a clean rag. 

“Ready?” asks Rodney. 

“Yeah, go for it,” says John, and when the curved needle pierces the skin he closes his eyes and tries to breathe through it. Rodney’s done this before, had to sew up John’s arm after an accidental slice from his knife when he was gutting a deer. Where that first time was a lesson in stitch depth and the tensile strength of fishing line versus nylon thread, this time Rodney has a steady hand and a confident air, and he pulls the two sides of the wound together with minimal tugging, keeping the needle at an effective depth in the skin but without pushing through to the muscle underneath. 

“Done,” says Rodney, and John looks down at his surprisingly neat handiwork. 

“You should have been a surgeon,” he says as Rodney replaces the equipment back into the tin. 

“Mmmm, maybe in another life.” 

John picks up his t-shirt from the bed and looks at the claw marks. It’s probably not salvageable as clothing, but some of the cloth can be cut down into cleaning rags if nothing else. Rodney passes him a clean one from the dresser and he pulls it on over his head. 

“I owe you a breakfast,” he says. 

“Better get on that,” says Rodney, smiling. “I’m just going to-” 

“Get into bed.” 

“But-” 

“No arguments. I’ll bring you some food.” John clicks his fingers and motions Miska to get onto the bed next to Rodney. She jumps up and spins around, settling down with her head at Rodney’s knee, her eyes darting between them. 

“Fine,” says Rodney, and he starts to take off his outer layers as John heads downstairs. 

“Scrambled or omelette?” shouts John as he grabs one of the last packets of powdered eggs from the pantry. 

“I’m easy,” comes Rodney’s voice from upstairs. John bites back his reflexive innuendo and throws a pan on the stove to heat up. He catches his trousers on the side of the counter, reaches into his pocket to pull out the forgotten rosary and turns it in his hands. He still doesn't believe, not in an all-seeing, all-knowing God, but he likes the idea that someone, somewhere is watching out for them, keeping them safe, so he hangs it on a nail above the stove and heads out back to grab some of the venison in the icebox. It swings in the current of the hot air from the fire, the crucifix spinning on its axis, the image of Jesus lit up by flame. It becomes a permanent fixture, much to Rodney’s mockery, and John looks to it in times of stress and despair, thinks of his mother’s smiling face and her warm, safe arms. 

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning for wolves eating dead bodies found in the cave in Part 1 (Teyla and Ronon)


End file.
